


Making a Mark

by thedevilchicken



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Altar Sex, Blood, Courting Rituals, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Knifeplay, Ritual Sex, Scarification, Size Difference, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: He didn't expect to be chosen, but she chose him.
Relationships: Nightsister/Nightbrother, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36
Collections: Teratophilia Trade 2020





	Making a Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheliak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheliak/gifts).



She has a mark to make, and she makes it on his skin. 

When she came to the village to make her choice, he didn't think she'd choose him. The sisters who'd come before her had all preferred their males smaller than he is; they liked them strong and hard, yes, as they all are, but not big. He's bigger than most. He's taller. Broader. Stronger. Harder. But the other sisters had never even glanced in his direction except to frown and his ungainly size. 

She, though, she looked at him. She, though, she smiled at him, like she saw something in him that the others hadn't. She reached up and turned his head this way and that. She felt the shape of his pared-down horns and their sensitive bases. She poked and prodded him, examined him, raked her nails down his bare back to make him shiver as if by her command and then said, once she was satisfied, "You're going to fight me now." So he did as he was told. 

He's big and tall and strong and hard, but she's so fast he couldn't land a blow. She knocked him down and his breath rushed out; she straddled his chest and put her knife to his throat, so when he breathed in again she went in with the air. 

And, when she stood, when she took him by the hands, she dug her nails into his palms and told him, "You'll do." She could have killed him and had one of the other brothers, but she chose him instead. He felt the strangest sense of pride in that.

She's so small that the brothers probably found it funny, watching her lead him away from the village, but he's completely unconcerned by that. She's smaller than the other sisters, like he's taller than the brothers, and he wondered if that might be the answer to _why him?_ \- he supposes that together, they might make one perfect Dathomirian. But he's beginning to see that that's not why at all. 

Here at the altar, in the mists of the swamp, she set her blades aside and instructed him to strip. He stripped. She instructed him to kneel. He knelt. 

At the altar, he watched from his knees when she took off her clothes. She's white-haired but there was no trace of it below, only the thin black tattoos that crisscross her cunt like neat stitches; he wondered who'd shaved her, and he wondered if maybe she'd let him instead, now he was hers. Then she hopped up onto the altar and she perched there at the edge. She spread her legs, arched her back, pressed her hands to the stone altartop. He moved closer. He understood. 

He licked her there, between her thighs, over the thin lines of her tattoos. He pressed his mouth there, like he'd kiss her mouth. Then he eased her open with his fingertips, parted the thin black X's like a seam and ran his tongue over that parting. Her fingers gripped the altar's edge till her pale skin looked paler. She made the red of his hands against her thighs look completely obscene. 

Then she moved. She pushed him back, and he fell, and she smiled, but when he stood back up again she pointed to the altar. "Lie down," she said, so he lay down, though the stone against his back made him shiver. Then she straddled his hips and took his stiffening cock in her hand, light fingers around red skin and black tattoos. His tip was moist and she ran one thumb over it, then traced his tattoos' patterns with it thoughtfully. She slipped one slim finger up inside herself and used the wetness she gathered to continue tracing. He gritted his teeth. Then she pressed him to her slit and pushed him up inside her, right up to the hilt. 

He groaned. He spread his arms wide and gripped the altar's edges so hard he thought that they might break, and he groaned out loud. It made no difference to him if there was anyone to hear: he'd been chosen. She'd chosen him. He'd never had a woman and had never had much hope to, but there they were. 

She was tight around him and breathing hard, as if his length and girth were almost too much, but that didn't come close to stopping her. She squeezed her breasts, took his hands and had him squeeze them, had him pinch her nipples hard between his thumbs and fingers till she moaned with it. She rolled her hips and took him deeper. Then she spread her arms out wide and closed her eyes; the words she said seemed meaningless to him, but green wisps began to gather at her palms. He felt a tug inside his chest and those wisps turned bright, but then she smiled and let it go. 

She rode him hard, with her hands spread wide over his chest, and he braced himself and pushed up to meet her. She was wet and hot and he could only breathe in hissing gasps, and when he came inside her, she wrinkled her nose and pushed him to his knees and had him lick her clean again. He didn't mind, not really, not when she shivered at his touch the way she did. 

And now, he's sitting there, still on his knees beside the altar. Now, she has her knife back in her hand. His blood drips from its edge onto the ground where a thousand brothers' blood has spilled before; his blood drips from his fingers from the marks she's carved into his palms. She surveys her work, turning his hands this way and that, till finally she nods. She smiles. He's pleased she's pleased. 

He understands. The sister who chose him is a witch, not just a warrior, though she can fight. She chose him for his strength, yes, his size, yes, but also what she felt in him: he's strong in the Force, and the Force can help her. The Force can make her stronger. _He_ can, and that makes him proud. He feels it well up in his chest. 

His palms will heal, scarring in thin lines like her tattoos. If they don't, she'll open them again, and again, until they do. 

For now, though, she brings his hands up to her hips and lets his blood smudge hot and wet against her skin. She cups his face and smiles at him. 

"I chose well," she says. 

He hopes he will live up to that. If nothing else, he'll strive to.


End file.
